A Duke the Spy an Artist and a Lie Read online

  Maybe he had.

  Maybe not.

  Selfishly, the time away gave him the pleasure to be something different than a widower whose newborn son and wife died hours apart. He definitely escaped being a mild-mannered man with a demented father, rakish cousins, and an overly zealous sister.

  How could he leave Amelia and Agatha, his beloved daughters, to that? Something needed to change.

  If he lived, he’d talk with Lord Liverpool, secretary of the department. The man who recruited him from the battlefields had to be the one to let him quit.

  No more noise outside the window.

  No increased footfalls at the door.

  His pulse slowed and he peeked again to the courtyard. The path was clear, but he stared at the leap which Johnson had made seem easy.

  One foot out and then the other, he dangled from the sill for a moment then jumped for king and country.

  His legs bowed.

  A pain shot through him.

  Since smallpox had left his limbs scarred and a little rubbery, he’d hoped they’d absorb the impact better.

  Not so much.

  He wriggled and hopped. Nearing his thirtieth year, he should still be nimble. Again, not so much.

  He hobbled away and hoped no one noticed the window he’d left open.

  Rounding the corner, he rammed into a raised gun.

  CHAPTER 3

  FELTON—A TICKET TO THE BALL

  Outside of the Demeraran government building, a soldier waved his flintlock under Felton’s nose. “Halt, wie gaat daar naartoe?”

  That was Dutch—angry, impertinent-sounding Dutch. White jacket and matching breeches with scarlet banding slung over his chest—the uniform the young man wore was very different from the one Felton donned when he was engaged in armed combat.

  The soldier shoved him. The sharp smell of a cleaned barrel was lodged against Felton’s nose.

  “Wie gaat daar naartoe?”

  Raising one hand slowly, Felton faked a stumble as if he were in his cups. Easy, with the pain radiating from his legs. “Oh. Sorry, old boy, I don’t speak Dutch well.”

  “A Brit?” The soldier didn’t lower the rifle. “I said, Halt, wie gaat daar naartoe? Halt, who goes there?”

  With both arms lifted high, Felton pushed back from the gun. “Lord Gantry, the Viscount of Gantry. I’m a bit turned around.”

  “What are you doing behind this building?”

  “He’s looking for me.” A sweet husky voice, a beautiful island voice, made both men turn to the vision coming closer.

  Braided dark chestnut hair done up into a crown. Warm gold skin with topaz-chocolaty eyes, the young woman approached the soldier. Her blue and red floral tunic stretched with each step. “Yes, Officer, me.”

  Shaking his head, almost whistling, the soldier slammed the gun to his side. “Miss Cecilia. You know Mr. Thomas wouldn’t want his daughter out meeting strangers.”

  “Georgy, I won’t tell if you won’t. You know I’m given to walking.” The young woman’s accent was light, but her silhouette was blessed with heavy curves. Very beautiful in the warm evening.

  She came to Felton. “He’s no stranger. He’s my friend . . .”

  “Lord Gantry.”

  “Yes, my Lord Gantry.” Her slight Dutchy-island accent was intoxicating as were the green bits he now saw in her eyes. They surpassed topaz, more like polished agate stones.

  “Why do these absentee Brits keep coming over here and scooping up the prettiest colored women?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.” Felton looped his arm with hers, leaning into her. “Miss Cecilia, I need a bit of help. I’ve lost my way looking for a girl like you. Would you do me the honor of escorting me to the ball?”

  The lift of her brow made his palms more sweaty. He shouldn’t have touched her, but he didn’t seem to have another option, not with the gun being raised again.

  The young lady went along with him this far, so Felton only needed a little more latitude to live. Well, that was what he’d begged with his eyes.

  With her stare unchanged, he realized desperation wasn’t one of her dialects.

  “Sir, you don’t remember your way or that we were to look at the stars before going to the ball?” Her voice was low, drawing him even closer.

  “Yes, stars, Miss Cecilia. They are bright tonight.” Felton feigned another stumble and towed her forward.

  The more distance he could add between him and the soldier the better. Yet, if the fellow followed, it would give Johnson a better chance to escape. “Ma’am, you’re a godsend. I’ve become completely lost.”

  Her smile returned, and she relaxed. “The subscription ball is in the building down the road, not the government building.”

  “Yes. My head was in the clouds waiting for you. Lead the way, my dear.”

  They started down the dirt road with big wood buildings and large homes dotting the side. It was an easy gait, like they’d done many walkabouts or promenades in each other’s company.

  Straightening, slipping away from his buffoonish manner, Felton slowed and watched her wiggle in her beautiful tunic. “Tell me of these stars, beautiful one.”

  “Sir, I see your stupor has cleared up. Miraculous.”

  In addition to saving his hide, she was smart with a sense of humor.

  “Lucky, miss.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said in a whisper. “Well, I find walking very orienting when there’s too much noise. Balls can be disturbing if my concentration is bad.”

  Very smart, to know how to restore one’s sense of calm. “Thank you, miss.” When he was sure they weren’t being pursued, Felton took a full breath. They were halfway to this ball. He’d try to gain entry wearing boots; Almack’s would never allow such.

  “The soldiers enjoy giving everyone a hard time. It’s better not to poke around. Save your adventures for the daytime when their actions aren’t in the shadows. Where are you from?”

  “England. It’s a very fun place.”

  “That’s what I heard. My sister married and left for that island last year. She’s having so much fun, we haven’t heard from her.”

  “That is a shame, ma’am, to lose touch.” He peeked over his shoulder. No one pursued, but he didn’t see Johnson. “I’m sorry. Were you truly out looking for stars?”

  She stopped and pointed to the sky. “That is Cepheus. It looks like a house.”

  Felton craned his neck. “I suppose it is. My imagination is not great.”

  “It’s not with most men.” She started moving again.

  He watched her. She was graceful, with hips rolling as if she heard some hidden music. “Wait, miss.” He caught up and took her arm again. “The infantryman didn’t seem to give you a hard time.”

  “No, they give us pretty colored girls plenty of problems. But my father is one of the wealthiest men in the colony. That keeps me from having problems.”

  He remembered Johnson’s words. “Miss Cecilia Thomas? You’re the one I’m here to see.”

  “Yes, that’s my name.”

  “How might I repay your kindness?”

  She squinted at him with stars reflecting in her bewitching eyes. “I need an adventure that will help me escape the next few hours. When I step into that ballroom, Papa will show me off like a prized sow to every headhunter that came to town. What am I saying? You’re probably one.”

  “I understand your lack of enthusiasm. I have aunts that try to matchmake for my sister back home.”

  “Then give me a fun evening. Pretend to be madly in love with me. Keep all potential suitors away. Let me have an hour or two where I’m unbothered.”

  Felton looked back toward the government building. More soldiers had gathered. Johnson. Did he get away?

  “That doesn’t sound too hard, Miss Thomas.”

  “You think? I can’t walk the grounds and look at stars without needing to rescue a stranger. Short of a promise for adventure, a simple thank-you is sufficient.”

  Intelligent with an easy wit. Maybe going inside this ball wouldn’t be so terrible. “Pretend, aye? Doesn’t seem too hard to feign becoming enamored of one of the prettiest women I’ve seen.”

  Miss Cecilia touched his brow. “You’re fevered. That happens to newcomers sometimes.”

  Taking her hand from his face, he put his lips to her palm, warm and smelling of honey. “Yes, very pretty.”

  “Thank you, I just wanted you to say it again.”

  He couldn’t help grinning at her. “Doesn’t a woman want the attention of a host of suitors? How else will she choose who to marry, unless marriage is not something you want? Sorry. I know it’s impertinent, these questions. We just met.”

  She tugged at the formfitting skirt. “It’s an honest question. My older sister, she fell in love with her husband at first sight. I paint too much, so I think my eyes have dimmed. Hasn’t happened to me.”

  “A good sense of humor is a wonderful thing to attract love. It seems only a matter of time—”

  The woman stopped and put her hands to her hips. “Oh, I don’t want just any laughing fool. Nor do I wish my father to choose. He’ll pick someone to better his business. I’m not the sort wanting to be sold off because I have a dowry.”

  Felton rubbed his hands together. “A man can use a dowry. You’ll have no problems being able to choose from a crowd of men.”

  With a shake of her head, she started walking again.

  He caught her hand. “Sorry, but I feel it’s true.”

  “Who wants to marry because a man is broke?” She looked away like the answers to life were in the dusty road or in the halos of torchlight used to light the way. “What if they stop me from doing what I want? I have dreams too.”

  “You seem young, Miss Cecil
ia. Are you sure you know what it is that will make you happy?”

  She slowed and looked again to the sky. It was magnificent, a cloudless night with so many stars out, blinking and shining. “The constellations are so clear. I’ll have to remember and paint it—and you.”

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw more soldiers surrounding the government building. His stomach clenched but he kept his face even. They needed to get inside the ball. And Johnson better stay hidden; he had a family that needed him to live.

  Miss Cecilia didn’t seem to want to move. He needed to become more visible, more interesting than stars that wandered the skies and remained untouched.

  “Dear lady,” he said. “The lack of access to funds or unwillingness to accept the terms of the money can lead to shallow pockets. I for one think a healthy dowry can speed things along, especially a courtship full of promise. I suspect you don’t like delays.”

  As one hand clasped her arm, she rubbed her shiny smooth elbows—not a mark or scar marring the perfection. “Waiting can be a terrible thing.”

  He tugged on the lapels of his dark jacket. “I’ll be honest. I could use a wealthy wife. Money does come in handy.”

  She grinned. “You seem too honest for a man I found sneaking about.”

  “If it led to meeting you, then aimless searching has benefits. And if I’d known I’d meet you, I would have found you a flower, some lover’s token for you to remember me by. Let us go to this ball and allow me to claim all your dances.” He lifted his arm to her, and she took it.

  “It does seem a short shrift, sir . . .”

  “Lord Gantry, David Felton Lance, but you can call me—”

  “Felton? I like that one, it’s different.”

  Suddenly, that one of his names became his favorite. “I like how it sounds on your tongue.”

  Lacing his hands with hers, he lifted them close to his cheek and sniffed her palm again. His large nose was handy for something. “What is that honeyed smell?”

  “Lilac. It’s how I wish jacarandas smelled. Jacaranda bloom is the perfect purple, vibrant and lively.”

  As she pulled away, her gaze went up to the night sky. When she lowered her lashes, he wondered if she’d prayed or wished for something.

  Felton forgot his mission, the happenstance with the soldiers. Nothing seemed more important than learning what she wanted. “What is it you desire most?”

  She looked at him with surprise. “Not many ask. I think it has to be adventure. To see things that will nurture my art. And to be treated like a queen because of my talents, not my father’s assets.”

  “You must have great talents for queenly attention.” He stared at her pleasing figure. “And your assets look fine from here.”

  Her laughter was musical, caressing his ears.

  Funny, bright, beautiful, Miss Cecilia had the makings of fine trouble or an adventure of a lifetime. “You will be a fine queen someday. Your king will be lucky.”

  The sound of a gun blast echoed.

  His heart failed. Johnson! Yeoman Johnson—his friend didn’t get away.

  Felton closed his eyes. He’d have said a prayer, but soldiers were marching toward them.

  At the steps of the banquet hall, she started to go inside, but he kept her hand. “Let’s enter those doors and go beyond pretense, straight to an adventure.”

  “What, my lord?”

  “I know this is terribly fast, and I’ve admitted to being intrigued by your dowry and assets, but I can take you across the sea for a fine adventure. The other side of the world can be great fun. Plenty to see and paint. Ma’am, you won’t be disappointed.”

  “What’s the cost for this adventure besides my nice dowry, et cetera? Speak fast. We’re about to be interrupted by at least three soldiers.”

  “A kiss for the man who wants to marry you.”

  Her head veered from side to side. “Sure. Where is he?”

  It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but a new bride was an excellent reason to leave the service . . . and to live past tonight.

  “Here.”

  Felton swung her around and swept Miss Cecilia into his arms. Squeezing her tight about her small waist, he kissed her. She went willingly, and they kept at it until the footsteps fell away.

  CHAPTER 4

  CECILIA CHARITY LANCE

  November 25, 1812, One Year Later

  My love held an unlit torch in one hand and my father’s knife in the other. The gleaming blade sparkled in the candlelight of the smallish room my husband’s family had given me to use for my art.

  “Cecilia, must I do this? It feels awkward.” Felton’s lovely voice was low and raspy from the cold he returned with from his last long trip.

  “Shhhh,” I said, and mirrored on my canvas the engraved gold of the knife handle and how it cast shifting reflections onto his blue-black eyes.

  “The painting is taking shape, my lord. Don’t mind my delay in getting this right. Waiting an additional two months for your return means that time matters not for us.”

  He looked down, taking his gorgeous eyes from me.

  Dark and mysterious, those deep-set marvels made me wonder what he’d seen and what places he’d been this time.

  Seems a wife should know these things after a year of marriage.

  “Please, Lady Gantry. My arm is hurting.”

  I ignored his complaint and picked at the savory cheese he’d brought me. The blue veining looked as if it had been fouled but it tasted rich and intense. “What is this called, my lord?”

  “You needn’t be so formal, and it’s Stilton cheese. I knew you would enjoy it with toasted bread.”

  It was good, and though I wanted to pluck a huge chunk and smack it to my lips, I refrained from the temptation. All the yeasty breads of Britain made my silhouette fluctuate from thick to thicker.

  His eyes were on me again. I assumed that meant Felton liked thick.

  “Discipline is what Lord Tramel would say.” My father-in-law was a good mentor to me on these shores. He made the loneliness tolerable. I so missed his estate. Close to the sea, the woods of Warwick Manor were lively, with such flora and fauna. It always offered adventure. The studio the duke offered was a palace, not a lowly closet, nothing like this.

  “Cecilia, may I at least lower one arm?”

  “One, and for a few minutes.” Holding in my chuckles, I returned my attention to my whimsical portrait. My serious compositions were hidden under cloths in piles about the room. They were for me when I was alone. I’d rather his family, the Lances and Gladstones, think me silly rather than judge my true art.

  Since we’d moved to London and away from his father’s estate, I let Felton’s daughters see sometimes. Agatha and Amelia kept my secrets. They were good girls. They liked me, my voice, the things I offered from across the sea.

  “Cecilia? Ouch. Find another punishment for me being away.”

  Felton did look pained and sad. “If you must take a rest, do so. Take the time to put on the toga. I’d love to see you do it.”

  “What?” He shook his head, then straightened his arms and lifted the torch and knife again.

  Stubborn.

  Fully dressed in a shirt and onyx waistcoat and not a button undone, he’d break one of his lanky arms merely to keep from being made to look ridiculous.

  “Oh, put them down, Felton. And you don’t have to slip into the garb of a Roman soldier tonight. I will accept your cheese sacrifice.”

  “Thank you. Something for the queen of our London abode.” He lowered my theatric items. “Jane says you sleep in here most nights, not our bedchamber.”

  The small cot was comfortable, and I avoided their scrutiny of when I was or wasn’t painting. “Lady Jane loves to keep track of my whereabouts.” I cupped my chin and offered a thoughtful look, not something sour like I felt. “Is your sister’s preoccupation a quest to hide from your aunt’s matchmaking or to track the foreigner in her midst?”

  His gaze darted from mine, circling about the room, the dull whitewashed walls, smallish window, the piles covered in linen sheets.

  Then it returned to me, as though he’d made a turn about the ballroom and chose me as his partner. “Cilia,” he said in a soft low voice, “you’re exaggerating. What if we head to Bath for the week?”